


Travelogue

by lynadyndyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: I guess it was just that I spent so many hours RPing, I was so absorbed in my fanon for this show, Just some porn, M/M, PWP, WITH PEOPLE WHO KNOW WHO THEY ARE, countless hours, looking back I can't believe I only wrote three pieces of Supernatural fanfiction, what more do you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynadyndyn/pseuds/lynadyndyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Missouri, they break a bed. In Oklahoma a maid, for some reason - Dean says she didn't see the Do Not Disturb Sign; Sam says they forgot to hang it up in the first place - walks in on them. Dean claims later she screamed and screamed, but Sam was there and she just made a hitching, painful noise like there was a barrier keeping the air from her lungs. She does cover her mouth with her hand as she backs out of the room though, in perfect comedic stereotype. Sam would never admit it, but the memory is kind of a turn-on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Travelogue

In Missouri, they break a bed. In Oklahoma a maid, for some reason - Dean says she didn't see the Do Not Disturb Sign; Sam says they forgot to hang it up in the first place - walks in on them. Dean claims later she screamed and screamed, but Sam was there and she just made a hitching, painful noise like there was a barrier keeping the air from her lungs. She does cover her mouth with her hand as she backs out of the room though, in perfect comedic stereotype. Sam would never admit it, but the memory is kind of a turn-on.

Right now they're in Illinois and Sam has Dean pressed against the door, pinning one of Dean's arms by the wrist to the wood. Dean's mouth is wet, slippery, sliding into a grin against Sam's. He's grinding against Sam in shallow little circles - tease is the first word that comes to mind, except that implies a coyness, an artful avoidance. Dean has all the demanding provocation and challenge inherently found in the first step of teasing; there's the implication of it. But Dean doesn't give and take away; he gives and gives and gives until taking is the only way Sam can fight back. This is how it always works, he thinks, clawing at Dean's jeans while Dean moans, loud and obnoxious, into his mouth.

Dean curves into his hands with all the silken, thrilling familiarity of a shotgun. It used to be harder to handle, how easy this is. Sam feels stupid now, vaguely ashamed about that. Both guns and Dean used to unsettle him for the wrong reasons.

"Come on," Dean complains. His pants are unzipped and the teeth of the fly dig into Sam's stomach when he wraps his thigh around Sam's hip. Sam's free hand automatically hitches him up a little higher, keeping him more secure. "You gonna wuss out now, pansy?"

"That was, like, the worst possible moment to make a homophobic comment," Sam mutters, but then he realizes he has to bite Dean's nipples. Dean makes a raspy, wavering noise and Sam's dick twitches so hard his vision blurs - each individual reaction immediate and chemical, crashing together like dominoes.

There isn't any particular reason Sam is about to fuck his brother against a generic motel door in Illinois. No more than there was a reason behind them breaking a bed in Missouri or traumatizing an Oklahoma maid. They'd just cut through a park after interviewing a man for a case, discussing it idly, and Dean maybe kicked a Diet Pepsi can out of the way and the noise made Sam look at him sideways, at the freckles dappling Dean's cheekbones, and they barely made it back to the motel. The light coming through the blinds is flare-out bright, headache inducing when it reflects against the beige motel carpet. The only reason for urgency is neither of them has ever managed to cultivate any impulse control when it comes to this.

That's what scared Sam the most when he was fifteen, sixteen. He would pad after Dean into the shower, a demanding and gawky ghost, kiss the tin and heat taste of the water off Dean's skin before his brother would get down on his knees. Back then Dean was remarkably dedicated to being attached by the mouth to Sam's dick, before they stumbled into other ways to connect their bodies. It had been a revelation, at fifteen, like a medical breakthrough, simple and miraculous. There hadn't been any brakes in the thing between them. It was all external factors: shame, fear, Dad. As if crashing was the only way to stop. The change in circumstances from then to now isn't something they talk about.

Sam doesn't want to talk. He licks Dean's nipple once before letting go and backing away from the door, tugging Dean with him. Dean shoves his shoulder and then they're wrestling like kids or figures on Greek pottery. Sam gropes at Dean's ass, for the little bump in the back pocket of his jeans that means Dean is carrying lube. It diverts his attention, which means Dean gets the advantage and Sam's the one knocked back against the bed.

Dean props himself up, giving Sam that canary-eating grin. Sam can feel himself make a face. "Still too slow, Sammy," Dean says, insinuating his thigh against Sam's cock. Sam's dick is just a universe of painful pressure already, and Dean's smile gets wider when Sam's head falls back and he groans.

"I'll show you slow," Sam says thickly. He's pretty sure Dean won't notice that makes no sense because he's worming a finger behind his ratty boxers, down his ass to where he feels heat, pressing in until he just breaks through the resistance. Like pushing through the skin of still water. He wants to be naked. He wants Dean to make him naked, for them to be naked together, but he needs to show Dean up first.

And Dean's face gets lax, his eyes hovering half-closed. He has the most ridiculous eyelashes Sam has ever seen, and Sam feels a weird wave of protective affection for him because of it. Dean's mouth is hanging open and Sam says, "yeah," softly. He sits up slightly, jostling Dean into moving with him. Together they tug Dean's jeans down and off, boxers too. Dean's cock is curved and flushed, bobbing with an almost comedic vulnerability, and Sam knows they're not going to make it to naked this time.

He starts on his own pants, but Dean bats his hands away and finishes the job. He slips off to the side for a second so they can pull them off, and Sam has to recalibrate now that he's not being straddled, absurdly surprised by the absence of weight and heat. It doesn't last long though; Dean climbs on top of him again, grabs his cock, nips at the corner of his jaw. Sam's stubble will turn his mouth red and swollen, and Sam clenches the muscles of Dean's back thinking about his power to alter Dean's physical landscape.

"Easy, tiger," Dean says. He's making fun of Sam, except Dean's also staring at him dead-on with that look like he's drinking Sam in. Like there's a quota to the amount of times he can stare at Sam and he has to ration them out for special occasions. Sam hates that look, always has, and he cranes his head forward to worry Dean's bottom lip between his teeth.

Dean snorts - Sam can feel it on his own face - and rescues the lube from where it fell in the folds of the sheets. He pops the cap with his thumb and grabs Sam by the wrist, turning his hand over like he intends to read Sam's palm. Instead he squeezes enough out to cover all of Sam's fingers.

Sam bends his knee, which means 'lift up a little', and when Dean settles back down it's on Sam's fingers, curled in and crooked. Sam watches Dean's face go red-mottled, feels muscled contract in a way that translates as fluttering around his fingers as Dean adjusts to having Sam inside him. It took Sam a while to absorb that inane enormity of sex - being inside someone. Being inside Dean. Dean rocks onto Sam's fingers at first like he's testing out the water. Sam adds another when Dean's expression relaxes and then a fourth because he's mesmerized by the show. Dean throws his head back, braces his hands backwards on the meat of Sam's thighs, taking it in. His cock isn't quite as hard as it was before, but it's getting there. The skin is tight and sticky-looking, with that almost plasticine sheen. And then Sam's babbling, can't activate the shut-off valve of his brain. "Dean, I gotta fuck you. I gotta fuck you now. I know that's what you want, quit messing around-"

"Lean back," Dean says, and it's not an order, exactly, but Sam does it anyway, sliding his hand out. Dean winces. They haven't done this the other way around too much, but Sam remembers that stretched-out, empty feeling. Dean always seems disappointed by the vacancy. Immediately, he's sinking down on Sam's cock, grabbing at his own dick, like he's making up for it with sensory overload. The push in is almost too much contradictory information for Sam even after all this time: hot and wet and round and tight and hard and soft. He feels himself whine as Dean says, "That's it. Oh Christ, that's so good. I like that, Sammy." And he slaps Dean's hand, curves his shoulders up and in enough to reach out and replace it with his own.

The bed is louder than either of them when they fuck. It almost always is. Sam and Dean just breathe, hard and ragged, and move, tight and frantic. But the bed groans to their rhythm, turning from a prop into an active player. Sam rubs a bead of wetness - lube from his hand, maybe, but Dean's closing his eyes and biting his lip, which means he's close enough it's probably not - over the head of Dean's dick. He's thrusting up into him as much as he can, grazing the spot that makes Dean's eyelashes flutter and his knuckles go white where he's clutching Sam's hip. No, there's no control, not now. Not in some nameless town in Illinois, where it's just Sam and Dean and the undrained and insatiable ocean of this thing between them, both lost in its current since Sam was fourteen. Where Dean rides his dick this hard, and Sam doesn't feel anything but a fierce and feverish joy.

Dean comes first. He usually does, getting come all over Sam's stomach. He clenches hard and Sam grits his teeth and comes inside him. Dean opens an eye, still flushed, his dick still hard. He's gasping softly, grinning at Sam out of the side of his mouth. He looks pleased, like they're in on the same joke. Sam finds himself grinning too, his muscles relaxing into well-fucked contentment. After a minute, Dean lifts himself off Sam and flops onto the bed. "Goddamn," he says, and buries his face in Sam's neck.

In Illinois they stain the sheets and oversleep, missing the motel's complimentary continental breakfast.


End file.
